


No me, no you, no us, no them.

by telemachus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Daily Prophet, Lack of faith, M/M, November 1981
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 22:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,That dead and empty feeling, that aching loss of self, loss of confidence, loss of everything.





	No me, no you, no us, no them.

**Author's Note:**

> November - Poem by Thomas Hood  
> No sun - no moon!  
> No morn - no noon -  
> No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.  
> No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,  
> No comfortable feel in any member -  
> No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,  
> No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -  
> November!
> 
> .

He hands me the paper,

“This might explain it more easily than I can,” he says, the same kindly but stern look on his face that there has always been when faced with – with your idiocy, all the years he was our headmaster, all the years we have known him.

I smile, in that last moment of ignorance, wondering what you have done now. It can’t be so very bad – if you were hurt, he wouldn’t have stopped to talk, we would be at the hospital. If you were – dead – he wouldn’t look stern.

You can’t be dead.

I won’t believe it.

Whatever – whatever the truth of all this, all these rumours – all the whispers and looks that have surrounded me these past days – eternal days, days of not knowing where you are, days of mourning our closest friends – you can’t be dead. Not you.

You wouldn’t have died quietly, hidden away, a three-day-old story.

Not you.

Headline news, that’s you.

Always.

So I’m not afraid as I look at the cover, as I read that the spy is found, the traitor captured, condemned without a trial.

Only when I see your photo, laughing, only then do I shake. My famous self-control pierced at last.

“No,” I say, “no, it – he – not him. He wouldn’t do that. Not to James, not to all those people. He couldn’t. I – I won’t – I can’t – believe it. This has to be lies. A mistake. I – take me to him – I need to see him – you can arrange that – I know you can. I need to see him, to find out – there’s been some kind of mistake –“

But he’s shaking his head sadly, old and wise, telling me there is no mistake.

You did this.

Only – only he doesn’t know you like I know you. He doesn’t – he doesn’t know the you that only I see.

“He refused all visitors,” he says, “he’ll have been moved far from here by now,” and I know what that means, “he’s gone. It’s over,” and as I shake my head again, as I start to try to find the words to say no, you wouldn’t have left me, you wouldn’t have done that to me, we – we had too many plans, dreams, he puts a hand on my shoulder, and, that sad sincerity in his voice once more, adds, “I suppose now we know why. You were always – and I don’t mean this unkindly – you were always so pleased to be noticed, so grateful to be loved, and now we know why he did. Or seemed to.”

So he knew of that as well. Not one single solitary secret am I left with, not one place to hide.

 

 

In the end, that you would not ask for me, that you would not see me is what convinces me the reports are true, the news real. I believe in his words, his kindness.

 

 

And when, years later, you stand before me, ragged and broken, and we watch as the traitor’s lies fall apart, I know I will never believe again.

 

.


End file.
